“So,” asked Coop, “what’s your favorite color?”
Distracted by the spicy mixture of sandalwood and cardamom emanating from him, Sam took a moment to reply. “Purple.”
“Favorite food?”
“Mexican.”
He angled his face toward her, dark brows slanted in a frown. “This is really important. Can you Two-step?”
It was difficult to remain serious as she matched his grave expression. “It’s been a while, but, yes. And Schottische and waltz, too.”
He grinned like Cheshire cat as he relaxed against the couch again. “Good. Favorite hobby, other than photography?”
“How did you know I liked photography?”
“You told me so at the first crime scene.”
Thoughts of the dead woman caused her throat to tighten with sorrow and she ducked her head.
Coop jostled her shoulder. “No sadness, Sam, not tonight.” He paused. “Hobby?”
“…Baking. My turn. Favorite color?”
“Your eyes.”
“Um…okay. Favorite food?”
“Steak. And chocolate cake. Not necessarily together.”
“Favorite hobby?”
“Fishing.”
“I saw some folks fishing at the lake the other day. Thought I might invest in some gear and give it a try.”
“I have more than you’ll ever need in the shed out back. Maybe we’ll go drown a worm tomorrow for another practice date.”
She snickered. “Drown a worm?”
“Just another way to say go fishing.”
“Ah. Let’s see…favorite sound?”
“Your laughter.”
“Favorite smell?”
“Your shampoo.”
She pushed back and looked at him. “Am I detecting a pattern here?”
“I hope so.”
His sensual voice dropped an octave and gooseflesh peppered her arms. When his head bent down, her heart did a little flip-flop.
The chirp of a cell phone stopped his motion. “Hold that thought,” he whispered as he pulled the phone from his pocket. “Delaney. Damn. When does he come on duty? No, you’ve done enough. Go home, get some rest. I’ll go out there tomorrow and talk to him. And Jimmy? Good job.” He jammed the phone back in his pocket.
“Bad news?”
“We still need to talk to the bartender on duty Sunday night, but he called in sick again. The other one is out of town until tomorrow night.” He pulled her in his arms. “Where were we?”
“We were discussing a pattern.”
“I thought we were doing this,” he murmured.
His lips were surprisingly gentle, yet sent the pit of her stomach in a wild spin. Each time their lips touched, she experienced a new sensation as her emotions whirled and skidded, the gentle massage sending currents of desire through her.
When he broke contact, her senses reeled as if short-circuited.
His voice oozed an underlying sensuality. “We’re missing your movie.”
“It’s overrated.”
“I promised to watch it with you, and so I shall.”
Time went unnoticed as they absently watched the movie and talked about whatever topic came up.
He told her of Jason’s impending marriage, the job offer in Houston, and his mixed feelings about it.
